"How far are we from Wartrace?" asked Wilson, as they approached the door.

"'Bout two miles," answered the farmer. "Wait there, and I'll take a look
at ye." He reached to one side and took a lamp. Then, shielding his eyes
from the light, he held it up and glanced from one to the other. The dog
came toward them, whining and growling. "Shut up, Shep. All right--come on
in."

They entered the shanty. In one corner of the room a dilapidated stove was
glowing; in another corner there was a bed, made of rough boards, with a
pile of dirty bedding on the straw. A table and one chair completed the
furniture. Near the door some farm implements were stacked. A rusty,
battered pan on the floor caught the water that dripped in through a leak
in the roof.

Now, for the first time, the three adventurers had an opportunity of seeing
each other. Tom, as he took off his cape and water-soaked coat, glanced
first at Wilson, then at Shadrack. Wilson was a tall man, nearly forty,
with a serious face. His mouth was stern, and he had sharp gray eyes.
Shadrack was short and plump. He was still blowing and puffing from his
exertions in the mud, but he laughed as he took out a handkerchief and
wiped his face. He had, in truth, been eating mud, for his face was
streaked with it. "Had my mouth open when I fell," he explained.

The farmer stood at the door, watching them silently as they took off their
shoes and put them by the stove. Finally he asked, "What are you going to
Wartrace for?"

Tom had been wondering what story they had better tell him. They were still